


The Aftermath of Silence

by BreezeMichelle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Armageddon, Dark Hermione, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, Some Humor, Time Travel, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreezeMichelle/pseuds/BreezeMichelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When muggles begin adapting, the Wizardry World is dragged into war once more. Hermione, by a twist of fate, is now the only person left, and spends years looking for a solution. Finally, she has a chance to start anew and save her world from the path it is headed. TMRHG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One: Silent Endings

**Author's Note:**

> This plot has been plaguing me for ages. I finally had enough to sit down and lose myself in writing. Slow updates. No Beta.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Unfortunately.

#### Chapter One

Silence (sahy-l _uh_ -ns) - noun - 1. absence of any sound or noise; stillness. 2. the state or fact of being silent; muteness.

Hermione used to enjoy the silence - cherished it even. Hogwarts hadn't been somewhere the presence of such stillness could be easily found. Even the library, though certainty quiet, had not quite had complete and utter silence; page's in tombs turning and disturbing the air; quiet murmurs from those studying as a group; stifled laughter and the odd snort; bird chirps traveling through the windows; leaves rustling.

The Burrow had - unquestionably - _not_ been silent. Nor Grimmauld Place. The Weasley family had never been known as a quiet bunch - an extreme understatement if there ever was one. And as for number twelve, Walburga Black had squashed any blessed peace achieved - irritatingly beyond the grave.

The once curly haired teen had not known why she enjoyed silence so. True silence, such stillness that one is sure time had frozen in place, was a delicacy the witch had _craved_.

She had been sure it had not even existed once upon a time. The Golden Trio's fifth year had brought true meaning to the useless word - the key having been undisturbed meditation. With Umbridge tainting the joy she experienced from simply being one of the hundreds residing inside the old stone structure, Hermione had had great need of a reprieve

Harry had given her the idea - the fact it was unintentional did not matter. With Occlumency lessons every week trained by Professor Snape and Harry and Ron's need to complain about said Potion's Master, the phrase - mocked in a _completely_ inaccurate impression - _clear your mind_ , had stuck.

When not with her two best friends or the DA, Hermione had been locked in a cozy room in the Room of Requirments studying Occlumency books. Of course, the act of blocking Legilimency was a useful ability, but truthfully, it had only been a perk. The true goal was ultimate silence - a goal which, like every other one established by the dedicated teen, had been successful.

Hermione did not know when such an obsession began, nor did it particularly matter - but she knew the _exact day_ it had ended.

October 30, 2002. Ironically, and tragically, the day before Samhian. _A new Witch's Year indeed._

Two years and three months after the Battle of Hogwarts, the Wizardry World discovered that war, it seemed, was not quite forgotten. It began simple enough - acts that which had been brushed off as an inconvenience and something easily fixed. That is until witches and wizards realized the true, horrifying cause of the cumbersome events.

Muggles who had been exposed to large amounts of _obliviates_ had began to _adapt_.

Suddenly dozens of non-magical folk had knowledge of a world they had been seperate from for centuries. And then dozens turned to hundreds. And then to thousands. When the number reached millions, only sixth months had passed and the Wizardry World was officially dragged into another war.

The Order of the Phoenix had tried to negotiate; to explain and show that they were not a danger - as a whole - like the panicked muggles believed.

They had not been successful.

When it - the impossiblity, the hopeless cause and attempt - had thoroughly sunk in, a quarter of all witches and wizards had been exterminated.

Most had been muggleborns. Neighborhoods remembering odd happenings occurring around certain children; families betraying their own - whether by their hand or simply with the act of giving up their child or member; attacks in muggle cities on those who stupidly could not blend in with non-magicals. Even Hermione had found herself in danger around those she had fought to protect, though being the brilliant witch she was known for, she managed to escape unscathed

The Order had lost five members only a month into the war: Emmeline Vance, Hestia Jones, Dedalus Diggle, Elphias Doge, and Fleur Delacour. The French Veela had been the final provocation for the Weasley family - thus Harry Potter and Hermione Granger as well.

The world had gone down hill from there.

On October 30, 2002, the muggle governments had obtusely launched a nuclear bomb at the largest, populated wizardry camp in Asia - if it could even be called a 'camp'. Housing over ten thousand magical beings, the area had been spotted via satellite. Everyone was instantly, and thankfully, painlessly killed.

The consequences of the act had been much more severe than the muggles had accounted for though. In their recklessness, panic, and fear, the non-magical humans had not considered the backlash of radiation.

Thus, all species had been eradicated.

And then there was only silence.

xXx

Cursing, she threw the useless book across the room, something her younger self would have been horrified by. But Hermione Granger was no longer an eleven-year-old child or an eighteen-year-old young adult. At the age of thirty six, she was a woman who, quite frankly, did not give a damn.

About anything.

That was not quite true, she corrected. She cared, but about one thing and one thing only - finding a way, anyway, to turn back time and change the present. Or if she had her way, the future.

Fifteen years and she still had not found anything remotely relevant. Though since she literally had all the time in the world, her hopes did not dissipate in the slightest.

Her mind was another matter.

The last human - correction: the last living being on earth was not all that it was cracked out to be.

...and that statement was a wonderful example of her lapsing sanity.

Not that anyone - if there was a person alive, that is - could blame her. Fifteen years of nothing but herself for company was bound to effect her 'sound' mind (she snickered at the horrible pun). And with losing everyone she cared for - Merlin, everyone she loathed, was indifferent to, or didn't even know - only stretched the thin line of her mind even more.

It was a wonder she hadn't offed herself already.

Oh - that's right. Immortality. Not quite as grand as many had thought. If only Voldemort could see her now - or perhaps he could...was every dead being watching her, the lone survivor of earth? Though if such a thing were possible, it was probably only those who had magical abilities doing so. She hoped muggles were, though, and she flipped off the ceiling for good measure.

Then paused at the thought of Harry or the Weasley's - or, gods forbid, her parents! - getting such a greeting after so long. Sheepishly lowering her finger, she was about to apologize before realizing just what she was doing.

Insanity was not a pretty thing. Though she would argue - to herself, of course - that she wasn't _quite_ insane. Yet. Only a little...unhinged. Just a little of course. Any more than that and she would be worried.

Sighing and lowering her head, she rubbed her temples as if that would dispel the rubbish thoughts littering her mind. No such luck.

Rolling her eyes, she relaxed back in her nice, plush chair (emerald green, and in her longing, she briefly mused at the possibility of sitting on Harry's bright iris'. Then she cringed and pushed the bizarre thought away). Licking her lips, she took a sip of water out of her wine glass. Hey, if she couldn't have aged grape juice, she would just have to pretend.

Right - where was she?

Oh yes, immortality. What a brilliant accident that had been (sarcasm was coming much easier these days). After the final battle - dubbed the Battle of Hogwarts. Original, isn't it? - Harry had, just to be safe, requested both Hermione and Ron accio a Deathly Hallow of their choice - sans invincibility cloak. Her best friend had not wanted to take the chance of acquiring the rumored - and as she now knows: true - immortality that came with being the Master of Death.

With the elder wand in her possession, and the cloak and stone magically willed to her incase of death, Hermione had become said master. Though she still wasn't quite sure how this event had occurred...of course Ron had died before the bombing thus the stone (her friend having wanted to see Fred after his death) had been rightfully her's, but she and Harry had both been in the same camp when the bombing had taken place...

She shrugged, pushing these musings away. She had already spent days thinking of reasons why Harry had somehow died before her, but couldn't find a logical enough answer.

And die she did.

Hermione did not know how long had passed before she had 'awoken'. Long enough for radiation to vanish, that much she knew. The time was irrelevant regardless. It changed nothing.

Biting her lip roughly, she picked up another book from her pile and prepared herself for a long night.

Who was she kidding? (Only herself, obviously. Trying, that is.)

Every night was a long one.

xXx

The time alone from others had done wonders for her magical abilities - and, perhaps most importantly, her affinity.

Before the bombing, Hermione had been the optimum of a Light witch. Bright magic only, easily controlled and bringing feelings of a gentle breeze - nothing that overwhelmed her or could be felt thrumming throughout her whole body. In all honesty, Hermione had never tried any other magic but _Light_ so did not know if such strong feelings even existed. (Except from an excellent orgasm, of course.)

The first few years - oh, who _was_ she trying to kid? The first few _months_ after Armageddon, she had stuck to her beliefs of Light Magic only. But without anyone to rein in her curiosity - and desperation. Trying to save her old world before tragedy hit, remember? - can she really be blamed for picking up a Dark book? No, she didn't think so.

Hermione only used the excuse of saving the world for her new reading material for the first few books. And then she simply couldn't be bothered.

Very interesting discoveries indeed.

Even before Voldemort had been killed, Hermione's opinion of Albus Dumbledore had diminished incredibly. And it honestly had nothing to do with Rita Seeker and more of raising her best friend to be a sacrificial lamb. First it was sending a _boy_ to find the madman's Horcruxes; and then it was knowing said boy was a _human Horcrux_.

So she hadn't been Dumbledore's biggest fan for awhile - to the chagrin of her inner child, who, quite annoyingly now, had practically worshiped authority.

And then upon discovering that Dark Magic was not, in fact, evil _at all_ , completely destroyed any respect she had for the late Headmaster.

Hermione had always wondered why she hadn't been as good at Defense Against the Dark Arts compared to any other class. Because an E on her exams had never been 'brilliant' despite what her friends had said - at least considering her other grades (all O's of course).

With a Neutral ritual, Hermione had found the answer to why.

The affinity of one's magic heavily influenced the spells a witch or wizard could cast with ease. While every witch was capable of performing any type of magic, those with certain affinities could only cast naturally if those spells were imbued in properties that matched their core.

It wasn't a difficult concept to understand - at least for Hermione - so what she _didn't_ understand was the prejudiced against different branches of magic. Didn't the wizardry world recognize that they were limiting those who didn't have a Light affinity? It was maddening.

And Hermione herself was of those who had been confined. Because, as she found out, her affinity was not Light like the world had so assumed - but _Dark_.

The only reason she was able to perform Light Magic so easily was the simple fact that her core was so large. If she had been an average witch in terms of magical powers, her grades at Hogwarts - of the practical intent - would not have been so perfect. Because while Charms and Transfiguration were of Neutral Magic, the spells taught leaned more towards the Light than the Dark. Defense Against the Dark Art's was another story altogether. Obviously the whole course was defensive Light Magic, thus explaining her grades in the class. Which also explained why Potion's - despite what others had believed - had been her favorite class at Hogwarts.

Potion's as a whole was Neutral. Though wizard's didn't need to actively cast magic when brewing a potion, their magic was still involved in the process - otherwise muggles would easily be able to brew a potion as well. That being said, one's affinity of magic effected the potion they were making just as it would with spells. Because the branch was Neutral, any magical being could make an adequate potion. But while Charms and Transfiguration leaned towards Light Magic (at least at Hogwarts), Potion's was more in the Dark spectrum than any other course taught at the school. If the class wasn't a necessity, Hermione wouldn't be surprised if Dumbledore had cut the course altogether.

So on top of searching for a way to change time, Hermione had begun honing her Dark Magic abilities. After fifteen years and with a photographic memory to boot, she would say she was up to par with Lucius Malfoy at his best. Perhaps higher, though she really had no way of testing this theory.

With the knowledge of where she was planning on going (and she _would_ , no matter if it took centuries), she also worked on her dueling. Since Hermione had always been an excellent dueler - one couldn't survive a war if they weren't - her skills now in the area were...spectacular. (Modesty seemed to be a thing of the past.)

Incorporating muggle defense - such as hand-to-hand combat - and daily excercises had left Hemione's youthful body (she supposed immortality did have it's perks) very _fit_. Which she thought said something as her body pre-apocalypse had not been bad at all.

Her appearance wasn't the reason for her ruthless determination, though. Because when Hermione found a way, she would be traveling to the year 1944 - Tom Riddle's seventh year at Hogwart's.

During Hermione's - well, obsessive was an apt word to use - search for all things Dark, she had stumbled upon an innocent looking pamphlet. And it was the _innocence_ that had shocked her to the core.

Hermione was well aware that Lord Voldemort had been a madman, a sociopath if there ever was one. But that one little pamphlet had changed her entire _world_ (or past world, since the one she identified with now was of the Dark variety, but she digressed).

Voldemort was a raving lunatic, yes, but - to her very _loud_ surprise - Tom Riddle was _not_.

Somehow, between losing his - brilliant - mind and the First War, the man with _too many damn names_ had changed his goals. Where they once had been good intended - if radical - plans of changing the wizardry world, in his madness, they had developed into the sinister ideals Hermione was familiar with. Kill the mudbloods; ruler of the world; _"Bow before me, servants!"_

Though to be fair, world domination was involved in both - but while it had only been a perk with the first set of goals, it had been the reason for the latter.

Tom Riddle - a completely _different_ person than ol' snake-face - had plan's to revitalize the Wizardry World. Merging Muggleborn's by taking the infants from their families while erasing any memories of the child as soon as they were magically written in the system. Completely and utterly cutting off from the muggle world. Re-introducing magical traditions.

What Hermione had not known - what nobody had told her - was the fact that the Wizardry World as a whole was considered _pagan_. And paganism was very different than Christianity.

Her years of absorbing as much information on the Dark Art's had been enlightening on the ways of the Wizardry World. For example: holiday's such as Halloween and Christmas were really _Sahmian_ and _Yuletide_ ; day's to honor the dead and the birth and gift of magic; days to honor the _Dark Mother and Dark Father_.

Hermione had wanted to feel confused when first discovering this. Wanted to be ignorant of why the Ministry - why _Dumbledore_ \- had celebrated and followed _muggle_ traditions rather than their own. But Hermione had always been intelligent (her IQ was genius level, after all) so she could not bury her head under the sand, so to speak. It was obvious why those considered Light had not upheld the traditions of their ancestors.

Prejudice. It was as simple and as complex as that.

To know that she had been on the _wrong side_ her whole life - for her life really began at age eleven - had caused a severe mental break down that lasted for _months_. Though it could be said she had never really had a choice as she had never _known_ , as her side had been _corrupted by madness._ Nevertheless, she had felt like a traitor to her own self.

When realizing it had never truly been her fault, and when realizing she had a chance to change - herself, the world, magic - that was when true determination set in. And that was when she focused her all on only two things - magic and time.

_Very interesting discoveries indeed._


	2. Sacrificial Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Beta.

**Chapter Two - Sacrificial Choices**

Sacrifice (sak-r _uh-_ fahys) - noun - 1. the offering of animal, plant, or human life or of some material possession to a deity, as in propitiation or homage. 2. the surrender or destruction of something prized or desirable for the sake of something considered as having a higher or more pressing claim.

Everything required a sacrifice, a price to pay. Hermione knew this intimately well. After all, wasn't her life the perfect example of such a notion? Consistent throughout - sacrifice after sacrifice, a few short moments of peace, a breather in between. Hermione would even say she was an expert on this philosophy, and unfortunately, she wasn't sure she would ever be able to retire.

The required sacrifice could be small, an almost mindless after thought - such as a handful of sweets or a Galleon or two. It could also be neutral - something one could part with indifferently, not even sparing a second for the decision. And then there were the sacrifices she was most familiar with, the ones that took a piece of oneself, leaving a gaping whole behind. Friends lost. A limb gone. Happiness taken. The whole bloody world eradicated in a blink of a eye.

So when she found her solution, the very thing she had been researching for  _fifteen years_  now, she was both ecstatic and  _wary._ It wasn't even the fact that she had to summon  _Death_  himself that made her so cautious. It was with the knowledge that with  _great_  wishes came  _great_ sacrifices.

The ritual was simple enough - though if there were others alive, they would argue against such a statement with a great deal of incredulously. The potion was already brewed, the circle cast, and she had the Deathly Hallow's in their designated places. All that was needed now was the spell to be chanted and her blood to be spilt.

The problem, the only problem, was the sacrifice. All the book had said on the matter was that a price was needed. No clarifications, no choices to pick from. Only that Death had a price, and if one was not willing to meet such a proposal, then their soul was lost for eternity after their death.

Wonderful.

Hermione would do it though - even if Death asked for her mind, she would do it. Anything was better than  _this_ existence. For that was what she was doing - merely existing. Hermione wanted to  _live;_ she wanted life to have more meaning than simply days upon days of research and only her sarcastic and odd thoughts to keep her entertained.

Though she prayed Death didn't ask for her mind: whether that be her sanity or intelligence. Or worse,  _both._

For one, she would need her intellect to survive her mission. What would be the point if she didn't have the smarts to carry such an admittedly desperate task? Hermione may not know Tom Riddle, but she would wager the possible Dark Lord would not listen to a moronic bimbo. Mocking laughter was a probable reaction she would garner.

And her sanity...she wasn't even sure she had much left. But she hoped such limitations would improve once she was around the living once more. If Death required it, there wouldn't be any chance of recovering and she would be left as sane as Bellatrix Lestrange had been. Not a future she hoped for.

With a sigh, she admitted she was stalling. Might as well get this summons over and done with before she talked herself out of it.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the ritual circle. The silver blade needed - runes of death, sacrifice, beginnings and endings engraved into the polished metal - was clenched tightly in a fist. With a quick slash, her left palm sported a deep cut, and she fisted her hand for a moment to cause more blood to flow. Closing her eyes, arms spread and fingers splayed in summon, one hand steadily dripping blood, she intoned:

> _Vos obsecro, morte senem. Eique vota premunt te sacrifies abundetis. Audi vocem meam, obsecro._

Magic stirred in the air, answering the call of her voice. A pulsing began to move through her body, beginning at her core and steadily traveling throughout the rest of her system. Swallowing a moan at the energy coursing through her, she continued:

> _Vos obsecro, morte senem. Eique vota premunt te sacrifies abundetis. Audi vocem meam, obsecro!_

Electric like sparks danced across her skin and shot from her hair, causing the mass of curls to frizz and unfurl. Her hands and arms began shaking from the weight of the heavy magic in the air, breaths quickening into gasps and pants. There was a pressure in her abdomen where she knew her core was located, but the feeling was not painful.

Her voice had gotten louder during the second chant, and continued to rise as she began the third without missing a beat.

> _Vos obsecro, morte senem. Eique vota premunt te sacrifies abundetis. AUDI VOCEM MEAM, OBSECRO!_

Back arched, hair and cloak whipping furiously around her, Hermione's mouth opened in a soundless scream as her head violently tossed back. It felt as if a thousand of orgasms were ripping through her form, the ecstasy almost too overwhelming for her human mind to handle.

Time seemed frozen, the euphoria lasting for only few seconds and many decades. When the intense pleasure from the substantial amount of magical energy - so deliciously  _dark -_ coursing through Hermione's body began to subside, she slumped but did not loose her footing. Panting heavily, body shaking something fierce, she couldn't formulate a single thought for long moments after. Finally, her mind not as muddled, she straightened-

-only to jump back with a startled yelp. Hand over her heart and eyes wide, she stared up at the intimidating picture before her.

Tall - so very tall - the being,  _Death,_ must have been at least seven foot. Long limbs almost translucent in coloring, the contrast of his pitch black robes only heightened the paleness of the skin stretched taunt over a lean, cut figure. Dark,  _dark_  eyes stared back at her, hair the same shade as the draping robes and so long that the tips grazed his narrow waist. The aura around Death was so startling and overwhelming that Hermione's mind short circuited for several seconds, his magic seeming to  _embrace_ her.

And then, as she slowly adjusted to the powerful - so powerful her heart was running in her chest - aura, she came to a realization. For the first time in  _fifteen years,_ she was in the presence of a living being. (The pun almost made her choke in hysterical laughter.)

Jerking a step forward, halting reluctantly, she began babbling in excitment. "Oh, Merlin. Oh, Merlin! Can I touch you?!" Death raised an eyebrow and an amused glint entered his eyes though Hermione was too wound up to notice. "Not...not sexually, of course - though if you were to offer...it's been so  _long_...but -  _can I touch you?_ Years, bloody  _years_  since I've seen  _anyone,_ anyone at all! I would be happy to see the  _ferret_ after so long! Just -  _please_ , can I  _touch_  you?" She panted, staring up at Death with wide, desperate eyes.

A pause - one that was not very long at all, but to Hermione, felt like eons. And then-

"Very well."

The voice's smooth quality and low timber wasn't the cause of her reaction. While lovely, it was the simple fact that in so long, Death's voice was the first she had heard spoken in  _ages_. (Other than her own, of course.) Her breath left her in a  _whoosh_ and she found herself unable to move, the two words seeming to echo in her mind for an eternity. But she managed to snap out of her reverie with the remembered promise of  _touch;_ something she used to take for granted but now realized what a gift such actions were.

Scrambling forward, not caring how she appeared to Death at the moment, air expelled loudly from her lungs when she laid a trembling hand on the man commonly known as the Grim Reaper. It was only his arm, but it overwhelmed Hermione so much that tears prickled at her eyes. The hand tightened and her lids closed, biting her lip roughly as she shook from the feelings coursing through her.

Longing. Relief. Hope. Yearning. Disbelief. Bliss.

The warmth under her palm had caused her heart to skip a beat or twelve. (And wasn't that funny that  _Death_ was  _warm?)_ Legs quaked and her lip quivered, her hand vibrating intensely so. Hermione was sure she was going to collapse any second, embarrassingly crumbling to the floor like a pathetic damsel in distress. She would never be able to look Death in the eyes after  _that_.

But these worries only lasted for a moment. With a deep breath, she dragged a mask of composure from deeply within her, concealing her warring emotions. Hermione took a step back but her hand stayed on Death's arm, as if it was physically impossible to move it ever again. Before she could try, a larger hand rested over her own, pulling a trembling gasp from her lips.

Her eyes shot back to Death's and she waited with a held breath for the being to shove her hand away.

But he never did.

"It's alright, Hermione," he told her gently, squeezing her fingers with his. She shuddered violently at the almost tender touch and the noise, wrapping her free arm around her waist. Death stared at her intently, and the soft, understanding look in his dark eyes made Hermione want to sob. "It's alright," he repeated firmly. "Do what you need."

Deliberation wasn't required. Hesitantly moving closer, she, at his nod of permission, wrapped trembling arms slowly around the darkly clad waist. The shudders wracking her body were fierce and her breaths seemed especially loud to her, echoing in her mind.

When long arms embraced her like Death's magic had before, her body was frozen as if stunned, and then after a shaky exhale, she completely slumped against the body pressed to hers. The warmth was overwhelming. The feeling of being held was so foreign after so long that Hermione almost didn't recognize it, but whole-heartedly welcomed the feelings all the same.

Breaths turned to gasps. And gasps turned to sobs.

Hermione didn't know how long she stood there - embraced for the first time in so,  _so_ long, crying on  _Death's chest._ But when she finally - reluctantly - pulled away, her legs were stiff and her arms ached from the tight grip she had had while hugging (bloody hugging!) Death.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, mortified. Wiping her eyes and cheeks roughly, she swallowed hard as she stared at her feet.

A hand under her chin caused her eyes to shoot up, and Death tilted her head from it's position pointed at the ground. He shook his head, long hair barley stirring. "You've been alone for a very long time," he told her gently. "It's alright, Hermione," he repeated once more, and something in his eyes made her believe him.

Swallowing again, she nodded slowly. "I...okay."

Death studied her for a moment and then gave a short nod. "Now, let us discuss why you have summoned me. Though I am sure I can deduce the gist of what you require."

"Yes." She took a deep breath to compose herself. Then gestured to two armchairs and inquired quietly, "Would you like to sit?" The amused look he gave her made Hermione feel slightly foolish, but he took a seat all the same. "As I'm sure you have guessed," she began after settling. "I wish to travel back in time." Death didn't seem surprised. "To the date August 20, 1944 to be exact."

The expression Death adopted told Hermione  _now_ she had shocked him - though it was very subtle, she saw it nevertheless. "1944?" A thoughtful look appeared in his eyes and then a brow slowly rose. "Tom Riddle's seventh year?"

"Yes." Hermione allowed a small smile to develop. "As you are Death, I'm assuming you are aware of Riddle's original goals?" At his nod, she continued. "I intend to see Riddle's plans come to fruition. Though I am not sure if I will reveal my past, I will somehow find a way to dissuade the boy from the use of Horcrux's, thus securing his sanity."

Death leant back in the armchair, crossing a leg and staring at her over steepled fingers. "There is more."

"I need possessions to live in 1944," Hermione said, her eyes flickering to the side for a moment before resting back on the heavy presence before her. "Galleons, clothes, a home with pictures of 'my' deceased parents. My life in the Ministry files; a birth certificate, death certificates for parents, testing results." She shrugged. "The less suspicious Riddle is, the better."

Death hummed and stared at Hermione as he thought. She resisted the urge to squirm and was thankful when he blinked, a smirk curling on his face.

"Very well, Hermione." She breathed a sigh of relief while Death titled his head. "I have been watching you, young witch." He told her in a murmur, looking at her intently for a moment. Hermione wasn't sure how she felt about being stalked by Death, but she supposed it was understandable with her being the last person alive on Earth. "I have seen the progress you have made over the years in the Dark Art's. If I had been summoned by another, I would have granted the request with the knowledge that they would fail.  _But you_..." His smirk widened into a smile. "I believe  _you_  shall succeed."

Hermione blinked. And then blinked again. That...was probably the best compliment she had ever been given. And the reassurance she now felt seemed to lift a weight from her shoulders.

"Thank you, sir," she said gratefully, bowing her head slightly.

Death hummed again - and then he abruptly stood from his seat. Hermione started, staring at the towering figure striding towards the ritual circle.

"Now-" he began, beckoning her forward with a curl of his fingers. Hermione rose from her chair and hurried over, resuming her place in the circle from earlier. "-for your price."

Death watched as Hermione began nibbling hard on her bottom lip in nerves, her hand's twisting the bottom of her shirt. After a few moments passed in silence, Hermione ventured with, "The price, sir?"

He didn't say anything for a long while, the minutes ticking by as he studied the witch. Finally, with a nod, he snapped his fingers and the Deathly Hallows appeared in his hands. "The price-" he began after another moment of staring at his creations, "-is your immortality."

She blinked. And then, as the reality of what Death had said sunk in, she slowly smiled. The wariness she felt earlier lessened but did not dissipate completely. "Is that all?" She asked, disbelieving. "My immortality? I won't be cursed with a half life? Bad luck for as long as I live?"

Death smirked and a glint of approval entered his eyes. "The price is simply that: your immortality. Many would not give such a gift up easily."

 _Thank Merlin,_ was the only thought that passed through Hermione's mind.

The witch couldn't help but scoff. "It has not been a gift - in all respect, sir," she hastened in the case of offending Death. "I never wished for immortality, and with being the only human alive on this planet, even less so. It will, in all honesty, be a relief. So - I accept."

Death did not seem surprised by her comments or answer, simply nodded his head and murmured solemnly, "So mote it be."

When the air in the room stirred and began to tear at Hermione's robes and hair, she gasped in surprise. She would have stumbled if her feet didn't appear to be glued to the floor beneath her. Wrapping her arms around her waist tightly, as if to hold herself together amidst the storm of magic, she stared at Death's gradually fading face with wide eyes. She had not expected her wish to be granted so quickly. Instant gratification indeed.

Before the room completely disappeared, the last thing she heard was a whispered voice in her ear. "Good luck, Hermione Granger. We will be meeting again."

And, oddly enough, Hermione felt no fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bringing Death into the story: seems a little cliché, me thinks, but I hadn't really planned on doing so. The original idea was for Hermione to perform a simple ritual, but somehow, this came to be. I let the story write itself and only have a vague idea of the final product, honestly - though I know the main and minor themes as well as the hidden ones. (And the ending!) So Death, the sexy bastard, brought himself in, not I. And, on that topic, the definition was a hint of what was to come. Diety=Death, got it?
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter, and thank you for reading. Until next time, darlings.

**Author's Note:**

> I am _not_ a scientist. I have no real idea what would happen if a large nuclear bomb had been set on a fairly big area. For the sake of this story, world wide radiation is the result. Please don't complain about how unrealistic the idea is - as this is fanfiction, I frankly don't give a damn, my dear.
> 
> No, Hermione is _not_ insane. I know it seems that way, but she isn't. Hermione has been alone for a very long time; she is extremely bored and lonely. Of course her thoughts won't be normal, just as she won't be completely in character. Would you be in her position? I think not.
> 
> Witch's Year: this is the Celtic new year which takes place on Samhain, October 31.
> 
> This isn't really relevant to the story, but to those who wonder, I will tell you as Hermione never really knows. Harry died before she did because the coordinates the muggles used were slightly skewed because of magical disturbance. Instead of bombing the very center of the camp, the left side (where Harry had been) was targeted, and Hermione was on the very right. She died only mere seconds behind Harry, but it was enough for magic. So no, it wasn't Fate or any other higher power that made this decision. Only chance (note the lack of capitalization).
> 
> Yes, this is a Tom/Hermione story. I'm still not sure how long it will be before they get together, but it will eventually happen. There may be questions on Hermione's age and how it will effect her relationship with Tom. I just want to say: Hermione is physically and - pretty much - mentally a twenty-ish year old witch with issues.
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading. Comments are very much appreciated and I may even give those who do a _sneak-peak_ for the next chapter. I would love to hear everyone's opinions so far, though I understand if you don't comment. 
> 
> Until next time.


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